James Craig - Acts of Violence

‘Not a bad innings,’ the inspector mumbled to himself. ‘Not bad at all. If you offered me that, I’d bite your hand off.’

As the train pulled into Woodside Park, two stops from the end of the line, Carlyle returned the paper to where he had found it. Looking up, he saw Sebastian Gregori get up out of his seat and move towards the doors. ‘Shit.’ Quickly he rang Umar’s number. The sergeant answered on the first ring.

‘Where are you?’ the inspector demanded.

‘About ten minutes or so away.’

‘Change of plan – he’s getting off at Woodside Park.’ He paused while Umar held a quick conflab with Gapper.

‘We’ll meet you there.’

‘OK, hurry up.’ Keeping the line open, Carlyle glumly surveyed the empty platform. With no one else around, it would be impossible for him to follow Gregori undetected. As the tube came to a halt, he watched the doors open and gave a quick glance to his right to confirm that the German had indeed got off. Fortunately, he was walking away from the inspector. Jumping to his feet, Carlyle hovered at the doors for as long as possible. As they began to close, he slipped on to the platform, head bowed.

To leave the station by the main exit, you had to take a bridge over the tracks. Jogging up the steps, Carlyle kept himself out of Gregori’s line of vision, staying well behind the German until he had disappeared into the station building. Counting to ten, the inspector followed cautiously. As he stepped through the ticket barriers, he heard the sound of a car engine revving up, and saw Gregori driving out of the car park behind the wheel of a black BMW.

‘Brilliant,’ he hissed. ‘What are you going to do now, genius?’

It was almost fifteen minutes later when Gapper screeched up to the kerb in the green Astra. The passenger window buzzed down and Umar looked at his boss expectantly.

‘What time do you call this?’ Carlyle complained.

‘Sorry, boss, the traffic was a nightmare,’ the sergeant explained. He looked around. ‘Where’s your guy?’

‘He legged it in a black Beemer.’

There was a pause while all three men contemplated the myriad frustrations of police work.

‘So what do we do now?’ Umar asked finally.

‘Fuck,’ Carlyle said emptily. ‘I dunno. Let’s go and get a coffee.’

Leaving the car in a side street off the High Road, they picked a café at random, Carlyle ordered a smoothie and began checking the emails on his BlackBerry while Umar and Gapper played a game of table football in the back. The smoothie, when it came, was rather sharp. Sucking on his straw, Carlyle winced, his mood not helped by a message from Alice’s school about a proposed hike in fees for the next school year. He was forwarding the email to Helen when there was a whoop of delight from behind him. Moments later, Umar pulled up a chair and sat down. ‘Eight-three,’ he announced. ‘A massacre.’

‘Glad to know our little day trip hasn’t been a complete waste of time,’ Carlyle said coolly.

‘It was your idea,’ Umar reminded him, opening a bottle of Coke.

‘That makes me feel a lot better.’ Looking out of the window, he scanned the ugly main road. For many years, Finchley had been Maggie Thatcher’s constituency. A Conservative stronghold. That figured. To Carlyle this part of the city – N12 – had absolutely nothing in common with ‘his’ London. And then, from the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of movement. An expensive-looking car was pulling out of the road opposite.

A black car.

A black BMW.

‘It’s him!’ Carlyle jumped to his feet, spilling the remains of his smoothie over Umar.

‘Hey!’

Ignoring his sergeant’s protests, Carlyle gestured at Gapper. ‘Get the car, quick.’ Sitting at the junction, Gregori patiently waited for a break in the traffic, before turning right and heading north towards High Barnet. Fumbling for some cash to pay the bill, Carlyle pushed his driver out of the door. ‘Quick,’ he repeated. ‘Let’s not lose him again.’

‘Urgh. This stuff is all sticky.’

Carlyle looked in the rear-view mirror. ‘Stop whining,’ he chuckled, his good mood restored as much by his sergeant’s misfortune as the renewal of contact with Sebastian Gregori.

‘But it’s all over my jeans,’ Umar wailed. ‘It looks like I’ve pissed myself.’

‘Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with us.’

Gapper and Carlyle exchanged grins. Putting his foot down on the accelerator, the driver eased them past a lumbering bus and through Whetstone. The traffic had finally begun to thin out slightly and they were soon making steady progress along the A1000. Gregori’s black BMW could be glimpsed half a dozen or so cars ahead of them.

‘So where do you think he’s going?’ Umar asked as they eventually passed Barnet Playing Fields.

‘Dunno,’ Carlyle yawned. ‘Maybe he’s heading for the M25.’

In the event, Gregori ignored the orbital motorway, instead taking the A1, in the direction of Stevenage. The inspector glanced nervously at the dashboard. ‘How much petrol have we got?’

‘Enough,’ was Gapper’s only response.

The BMW was still safely in sight, moving at a steady speed, when Umar piped up from the back seat. ‘I need a piss now, for real . . . all that Coke.’

‘For God’s sake.’ Carlyle shook his head.

‘If you mess the seats,’ Gapper said grimly, ‘I’ll kill you.’

Almost an hour later, the BMW turned off the motorway at a place called Biggleswade. Careful not to get too close, Gapper followed suit. For several minutes they headed down a narrow two-lane road without seeing another vehicle. On both sides of the road were fields, surrounded by low hedges. Apart from the occasional group of sheep, the fields were empty. It reminded Carlyle of the landscapes of Skåne where a fictional Swedish detective ran around dealing with a non-stop crimewave that was far worse than anything a real-life London copper ever had to deal with.

‘Where the hell are we?’ he asked, as they passed a sign for the John O’Gaunt Golf Club.

‘Bedfordshire,’ the driver explained.

‘There’s nothing here,’ the inspector observed dolefully.

‘My grandparents used to live round here.’ Gapper glanced at the speedometer, careful not to go above 40 mph. ‘It was very handy for London.’

‘I suppose it would be.’ Failing to feign any interest in Gapper’s family tree, the inspector gestured at the road ahead. ‘How are we going to do this?’

‘We just have to keep far enough back that he doesn’t see us, and hope that we don’t lose him.’

‘Not very inspired,’ Carlyle sighed.

‘Always happy to hear a better idea.’ Straying into the middle of the road, Gapper eased the Astra round a bend and almost straight into the back of the Beemer, which had been parked on the side of the road.

‘Shit.’ Carlyle ducked down under the dashboard as Gapper took evasive action.

‘What do you want me to do, boss?’

‘Keep going!’ Carlyle shouted. ‘Find a place further along where we can stop.’ Cautiously checking in the rear-view mirror, he looked for signs of Gregori. ‘Where is he?’

‘Maybe he’s taking a leak,’ Umar said pointedly.

‘All right, all right. Hold on.’

A hundred yards further on, the road curved left and fell away into a hollow containing a few diseased-looking trees. ‘This’ll do.’

Gapper edged the car off the road as far as he could and they got out. Showing a hitherto concealed turn of speed, Umar sprinted up to the nearest tree and relieved himself.

‘Aaahhh.’

‘Happy now?’ Already marching back up the road, Carlyle checked his phone to see if he had a signal. Two bars. Ah well, he supposed he should be grateful for that. He waved the phone at Gapper. ‘What’s your mobile number?’ Gapper had to recite it three times before Carlyle managed to correctly store it on his phone. ‘OK, good,’ he said finally. ‘You stay with the car. I’ll give you a call when we need you to come and pick us up.’